


Katakiuchi (If Not Victory)

by mona1347, poisontaster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Murder, Past Rape/Non-con, Revenge, Sibling Incest, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-22
Updated: 2006-04-22
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:43:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4779158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mona1347/pseuds/mona1347, https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In feudal Japan, the Samurai class upheld the honor of their family, clan, or their lord by katakiuchi, or revenge killings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Katakiuchi (If Not Victory)

**Author's Note:**

> _Which, if not victory, is yet revenge._  
>  \-- John Milton, Paradise Lost (bk. II, l. 105)

Dean's watching TV with his head in Sam's lap and Sam's fucking around with Dean's hair when suddenly Sam asks him, "What's this one?"

He's tracing a line across Dean's scalp, just above Dean's hairline and Dean reaches up to finger it himself before he remembers.

_The crowbar. The blood._

He doesn't mean to, but he shivers and his fingers jerk away like the little line of scar tissue is hot wire. "It's nothing," he says…but he knows he gave himself away; Sammy's like a fucking bloodhound with shit like that.

_Pain. As much pain as he's ever had in his life, in every part of him._

"Looks like a pretty bad scar."

This is just…one of those things that they do, since Sam came back; a kind of comparative anatomy, the anecdotal road maps of the hurts they suffered without each other. Filling in the gaps. Most times, Dean's kind of hungry for it, information he can understand, and trading his own stories is a small price to pay. But this scar… His fingers close over Sam's wrist—probably tighter than he intends—and he tugs Sam's hand away. This scar is one he'd just as soon not reminisce about.

_And the laughing. They didn't say much, once they got down to it, but they'd laughed pretty much throughout, deep amused belly laughs like this was just the best time ever._

And so Dean's dismissive. "Nah. I got ambushed by a bunch of rednecks this one time."

_Seven of them. Seven of them and him all on his lonesome, minding his own business and not saying boo to anybody for a change._

Dean shivers a second time and sits up, scratching his scalp roughly to get rid of the sensation of Sam's fingertips. Sam looks at him all weird and says, "You never told me about that."

_No pool game worth having, no ghosts to banish, no monsters to slay. Just passing through. Couple of beers and burgers in the local grill and then out again. On the road, on the hunt._

Dean shrugs. "Nothing much to tell. Kinda forgot, really." Which is an out and out lie. But Sam doesn't know that.

_A whiz. He'd stopped for a fucking_ whiz _, out on the side of the road somewhere; how fucking stupid is that?_

"Oh, come on, Dean. I…" Sam reaches towards him and Dean ducks aside. "Humans? Like…people? Humans really did that to you? What happened?"

"Yes, _humans_ , though the 'people' part is debatable," Dean snaps, anger uncoiling hot in his belly like a salamander. "You remember those cracked out cannibals...is that so difficult to believe? _Still?_ "

"Hey—" Sam's eyebrows pull in over his nose. He makes that same half-gesture as before, then lets his hand fall before making contact. "I'm just surprised is all. C'mon, Dean; you know I think you're invincible."

Dean knows it's a joke, but he can't stop the growled, "Yeah, well, I'm _not_ ," that comes out of his mouth or the way his shoulders hunch up. "Anyone can get got…"

"…enough guys got enough interest," Sam finishes, tone souring as he parrots back Dad's words. "Jesus, Dean, we've all got the crap kicked out of us more than a couple times—why is this any different? Just because they're not supernatural? It's not like they…"

And this is the problem with people that know you too well.

Because Dean can damn near hear the cogs in Sam's brain clicking over when the penny drops.

_Seven of them. Seven of them holding him down by his dislocated shoulders while the blood from his head keeps pouring—into his eyes, into his nose, into his forced open mouth—and he's got absolutely zero leeway to even shake it off. Seven of them, taking their turns._

"Dean."

_How long? How_ long _? It's still a question he doesn't have an answer for, and even though he's pretty sure he doesn't want to know, sometimes he can't stop probing at it, like a rotten tooth._

...oh god. Dean puts his head in his hands.

"Dean..." The bed squeaks as Sam shifts to his knees. "Dean, I swear, man…."

"It's nothing!" Dean waves his hands, head aching with phantom pain. "Never happened!"

" _Dean._. I _know_ you, you crappy lying motherfucker...what are you not telling me? I'll fucking drug you, man, I swear and ask you when you're all roofied. Don't think I won't."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, college boy, I bet you and your frat boy friends know _exactly_ where to get your hands on that. But no. Nothing to say, nothing to tell. Got jumped, got over it—end of fucking story."

"'Jumped'."

Dean's face twists. "Bad choice of words. Shut up."

"Uh huh. And they.... Did they...?" Sam licks his lips, looks away. Then he sighs, like _he's_ the one that's just so fucking put upon. "Just fucking _tell_ me Dean. You have to tell me."

And really? No. No, he doesn't. He doesn't have to tell anyone. That's been his policy on the matter so far and it's worked out just fine. "Why are you suddenly so interested in the state of my ass, Sammy? Seems to me you were doing plenty with yours during the period of time in question."

"Oh, and you're just so jealous about that, aren't you? Stop trying to change the fucking subject!"

Dean sighs. "It happened, man. I'm over it."

"It happened?" The inadvertent confirmation spills through Sam's already dark eyes like ink, darkening the brown to almost-black. Dean could fucking kick himself. "Where?"

Dean says nothing.

_"Where?"_ Sam's voice is so flat it almost doesn't read as a question.

Dean snorts again. "Why? So you can go back and redeem my questionable virtue? That shit's for the movies, Sammy boy."

He doesn't expect it at all when Sam just fucking explodes. "Your _virtue_?!" He lunges across the bed like he's going to hit Dean and Dean finds his head tipping up to meet the expected blow. "No, because actually, I'm going back there and I'm going to kill every single fucking person who ever hurt you, Dean! I... _fuck_."

Dean turns away, hands balled at his side as Sam falters. But of course, Sam doesn't take a hint and just keeps on talking…

"I can't believe you didn't tell me that...I just. God, Dean."

Dean rolls his eyes, throws his hands up. "It's _over_ , Sam! Jesus _Christ_! Why can't you ever just get over all this old shit?" Dean pauses, his breath coming too hard, his heart beating too fast. Then, quieter: "Besides, it's my own fault. I should have been...I don't know....smarter. Faster. Better."

_One tap to the skull and he'd been down like a fainting maiden. Two dislocated shoulders, bleeding head wound, a couple broken fingers, one possibly/probably broken rib, a smashed up windpipe and fucked up knee later and he's left for fucking road kill. No idea where he is, or even where he is in relation to the Impala. No fucking idea how he's going to get himself untied or what to do then._

"Because it's not old shit, Dean," Sam continues on hotly at the same time, talking at cross purposes, running to catch up and still get all his digs in, same as always. "It's _never_ old shit with us. It's festering, _fucked up_ shit that just never washes away. Don't you know how it...how not okay it is that… It's... I…" Sam trails off and again, Dean can just about hear the gears grind.

" _Dean!_ " He sounds horrified. Looks it too. _Oh God, here we go…_ "Dean... Something like that? It's never...it wasn't. It's _not_ your fault." He touches small of Dean's back lightly and Dean flinches away like Sam's hand is on fire.

_"Sweet. He's so fucking_ sweet _, in't he? Fuck. Like a woman, clings so tight."_

"Fuck. I don't want to talk about this, okay?"

A pause. The soft puff of his breath. Then, softly: "I got nothing Dean."  
  
"Forget it." Dean looks at Sam, damned if he's going to flinch first. "I should have never brought it up."

"I just... I want their blood on my hands." Sam's not even looking at him; gazing down at his hands now, like he's visualizing it, like he just doesn't even hear himself talking. His tone's dull, without any of the acidic anger of before. "That's all. I just... I want to feel their life drain out over my hands for...for hurting you."

Dean says nothing. He _can't_.

_Alone, fucked up, he coughs and spits, an ugly clot of blood and spunk and sputum that hurts his abused throat to expel. The violence of it rattles through his broken skull and he closes his eyes, fighting against nausea and tears and unconsciousness._

"For what it's worth?" Sam doesn't look up, still turning his fists in the light. "I'm... I guess "glad" isn't the right word but... That you told me..."

Oh _God_. No. _No_. "This is not a Lifetime movie moment, dude."

Sam sighs and scrapes a hand through the mop he calls his hair. "Fine. Whatever. I just... Listen, forget it. I'm... I'm gonna go take a shower." He unfolds himself from the bed, lanky bastard.

At the same time, Dean gets up in a rush and shoves his fists in his pockets, shoulders hunched. "I'm going to go wash the car. It's filthy. This is what happens when I let you drive her."

They stand that way for a couple beats, not looking across the space that divides them. "Okay," Sam says, "fine."

"Fine."

Dean crams into his boots, not bothering with the laces. He swipes the Impala's keys off the dinette table next to the door, and…

"Dean?"

Dean doesn't even have to _look_ ; he knows Sam's got on the puppy face. He sighs and turns around. "Yeah?"

Sam's mouth opens and closes a couple times. "I..." Then his face closes in tight, an expression Dean finds eerily reminiscent of himself. Sam coughs. "Whatever. Nothing."

Dean sighs again. "Yeah. All right."

_Dad's gone and Sam's gone. He's all alone. No one is coming for him. There's no one who's going to save him except himself._

_So he does._

When Dean comes back, Sam is pretending to sleep. The TV is on, playing some crap old movie and Sammy's wet towel is slung over the foot of the bed. Which is the best indication that he's troubled, because Sammy's a bit of a neat freak. _(Oh my God, Sammy; it's a motel. There are_ maids _. Heh. Not in this roach trap.)_

Dean takes off all his clothes, everything, and crawls into the bed with Sam, curls up behind him. "Sam?" Nothing, only stubborn silence. Dean's jaw clenches and he rolls over, back to Sam. "Fuck. Dude. I know you're not sleeping."

He's not stupid and he's known Sam forever; of course he's awake.

A moment later, Sam gives in and rolls over quietly without a word or much of a noise, curls himself around Dean's naked body, wraps both his arms and one leg around him and hangs on. Both of them pretend not to feel the slight tremor running through Dean's skin; pretend not to notice how hard Dean clutches Sam's wrist on his chest.

Finally: "Pontiac. It was Pontiac."

He feels Sam's nod. "Thank you."

"I..."

Sam nuzzles the back of his neck and even though he knows it's Sam, it's all Dean can do not to shy away. This is why you don't wake up old fucking memories. "Hmm?"

"I don't know. Forget it." What could he say anyway?

Sam nods again, a grassy tickle of that silly-long hair. "Me too. Go to sleep, Dean. I got you."

Dean breathes out. "Yeah."

Sam breathes "Yeah," out into Dean's hair and lets Dean shift just enough to reach for the light, then holds him a little tighter. Dean shudders once, hard, then makes himself relax back into that long, heated body. He isn't sure he really hears the last part of Sam's thought, half-breathed--half-thought maybe: "Never again. I'll never let anyone hurt you ever again.

"I swear to god, I'll kill them."

 

 

The subject drops entirely for a long time. Sam because he's a moody little bastard and Dean because he'd almost rather hack through his scrotum with a rusty saw than bring it up again or have Sam look at him that way. Plus, they're traveling; things to do, things to kill. It's a distraction, a life.

But then, when they're about 150 miles outside of Pontiac—and Dean always knows how close or far from there he is—Sam says, casual like, "Can you handle this one on your own, man? I got something to do for a few days. I mean it's just a standard poltergeist and I figured....I got some friends a few miles..."

Dean's shoulders have been up around his ears all day and he feels like someone stuck a steel pole up his spine. He cuts Sam off and doesn't ask any questions "Yeah. Yeah, I can take this one."

They don't make eye contact. They don't say anything else about it.  
  
Sam rents a shitty-ass car from the lot near the bus station, packs a duffel full of some clothes (but mostly weapons) and just....disappears for about four days.

Dean takes care of the poltergeist, does some research, doesn't go to any bars, does a major inventory, overhaul and cleaning of their weaponry, details the Impala, rubs down the leather of the interior, does all their laundry (twice), cuts his hair, trims his nails, mends some shirts and is considering cleaning the car tires with a fucking toothbrush and _really_ applying himself to a bottle of Jack when Sam gets back.

Sam hasn't called once. Dean hasn't called either.

Dean saw Sam coming a while ago. Cross-legged on the ground, it's no surprise when Sam's boots scuff the gravel next to him and Dean doesn't feel the need to look up at him. Probably hurt his fucking neck anyway. Sam _looms_ for a while, or whatever the fuck he does and it goes on for a while before Dean finally ventures: "Do I need to worry about the police looking for you?"

_Seventy-two hours--three days--of recon, talking, threatening, cajoling until he had it narrowed down; dangerous, violent men; 'friends' that went fishing and hunting and God knew what else pretty much every weekend. There was no way he'd be able to take them all on in a group, no more than Dean had._

_He'd just have to kill them in their sleep._

The sound of his own voice breaks some line of tension in Dean's neck and he can look up then.

Sam looks straight into Dean's face and his eyes are empty, a little bloodshot, and highlighted by a new scar through his eyebrow. "No."

_He set the charges, neat and precise in the four corners of the ramshackle old cabin. Pulled the lighter fluid from his pack. The salt. Poured the salt over the...pile...soaked it all and set it all on fire. As it burned, he shook the rest of the salt out into the dirt floor, grinding it in with his heels and outlining the doors and window sills. He fought the urge to grab the shovel—is that what made Dean's scar? What they used?—and till the salt deeper. Not enough time._

_He wished it had been slower._

They stare at each other like that for a while, and it's not comfortable. Questions are asked, answered, discarded and filed away, all in silence. Then Dean gets to his feet, brushing dust off his hands onto the seat of his jeans. "You need to work on your stitches, Sammy. Jeez, what'd you use? Fishing wire?"

_Cut them. Cut them so deep they can't even scream._

Sam's jeans are very clean, a little more bleached than they were before. His shirt is Goodwill-new. "Something like that." He moves toward Dean and holds out his face, tilts it up, like he's still 8 years old, getting wounds inspected sympathetically but matter-of-factly by Dean or Dad or—more likely—both. Dean's hands are shaking a little and very, very cold when he touches Sam's skin.

"Not bad. Healed clean, anyway."

Sam ducks his head, hair falling into his eyes a little. "Yeah. It's clean."

_Six down, but seven was a lighter sleeper than his fellows. "Why? Why you crazy fucking bastard...I don't even...who_ are _you?"_

"I..." Dean's fingers tighten a little. "Rock?"

Sam looks up, doing Dean the courtesy of eye contact for this. "Piece of concrete. The blast broke it loose and he didn't stay where I'd put him. Least not right away. Didn't know a man could get that far with his right arm missing... But he managed it. Not for long but…he managed it." After a moment, Sam blinks and shakes himself.

_"You fucking faggot piece of shit!" The guy swiped at Sam's head with the broken gray chunk. But he just clipped him, when he'd meant to knock Sam out._

Dean's eyebrows go up and he chokes a little, but he doesn't say anything else, hand curving around the back of Sam's neck and tugging him forward for Dean to meet his mouth.

_Sam doesn't remember anything until the red-washed piece of concrete tumbles out of his bleeding hand next to a lump of clothing and...thicker things. Sam wiped the liquid from his eyes; blood thinned down with something else he can't—won't—name._

Sam closes his eyes and he sways into Dean tiredly for a second. Someone makes a noise, soft and stifled, but neither one of them is going to cop to it. Then Sam pulls back and his eyes are both hard and soft. "I'm gonna shower," he says brusquely, scrubbing one hand over his face. "You need anything?"

Dean pauses, like there are a hundred things he'd like to say. Then he shakes his head. "Nah. I'm gonna finish up here. We should probably get back on the road."

His fingers tighten again where they've come to rest on Sam's shoulders. Then he pushes Sam back. "Go on, dude. You stink."

Sam laughs and kisses Dean quick on the forehead; moves away before Dean can look at him like he's a soppy freak or make a snarky comment.

_He couldn't save Dean, couldn't protect him as he's been protected so many times. But he can give him this, and hope it's enough._

 

 

Afterwards, Sam's showers get hotter and longer. His eyes get a little harder, more watchful, and he holds Dean desperately tight some nights. But it's not like Dean minds that part. Sammy still laughs, still plays lame-ass practical jokes on him, still fucks him slow and tender or hard and rough. Whatever he needs.

He's still Sam and Dean is still Dean and Dean doesn't want to think about what it means for both of them that he let Sam go for those days, without saying—doing—anything. That Sam was healed by whatever scary violence he committed there or that maybe Dean was too.

Dean doesn't want to think about it, about what kind of men they are. It puts his mother's face behind his eyes and he doesn't want to see her expression. So they drive, they move on to the next thing. And they are Sam and Dean. They hunt. They win. And they survive.

END.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to inlovewithnight for beta duties.


End file.
